The last pleasure

Each time before the dance began, the spider span a sweet, calm coast of cliffs with his mouth.

Fire blew tiny gold demons across the rocks and into the spider’s legs and hairs, taking him into the flight of imaginary friendship.

The feel of a warm embrace in the blood would be the last thing he remembered before he fell, into the dance.

It could even begin quite —fortunately. A warm nod of rain, a gentle tap on the floor, an invitation to delight. And then, each time, disaster, a dancer called Old time tiptoed nearer and nearer like the inevitability of an eventual inhalation for a breathing body, marking its passage with a stamp that shook the web, and a sneer that drifted a burning dread through the spider’s heart.

Old time was an expert hand at shredding the spider’s smile without a backward glance.

Some thought Old time was in it for the money, but who would pay to steal the spider’s joy? He had no enemies. Not now anyway. The word on the wall was that he wouldn’t even hurt a fly. Pretty much all he could bring himself to eat these days was fury, storms and drops of ice.

No, it had to be more than money. It was a personal vendetta and, while the spider determined to dance away the invader, each night the spiralling spikes and rapid feet of chaos tore away the carefully-tended, logic of the web leaving scattered threads and a few puzzled dew drops.

“Unwritten Stories” – M.G. Lands

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